—Poetry by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
—Public Domain Photos of Springtime Babies
Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
CONSIDER SPRING
After Robert Francis’s “Squash in Blossom”
Consider the luscious
greening moisture of sleeves
that open into new leaves;
how the color green gushes
through spring until summer;
how the unfoldings turn golden,
each stem is hidden in a process
more somber now. As if, to be
truly a green-thumb one must
plumb the depths of uncertainty
about the insignificant, small
matters of a splinter revelation:
the coming of winter
after the drying out of fall.
After Robert Francis’s “Squash in Blossom”
Consider the luscious
greening moisture of sleeves
that open into new leaves;
how the color green gushes
through spring until summer;
how the unfoldings turn golden,
each stem is hidden in a process
more somber now. As if, to be
truly a green-thumb one must
plumb the depths of uncertainty
about the insignificant, small
matters of a splinter revelation:
the coming of winter
after the drying out of fall.
FRUITFUL DEBATE
“among the lily pads
and tall dark spears
of listening grasses…”
—"The White Dream"
by Joyce Odam
Among the lily pads
of green a hoping blooms.
Hearts of thoughtful men will
entertain a hope to vanquish gloom
and tall dark spears
of doubt and darkened fears.
Men debate then fight a war
of words. And, thus arises
in list’ning of the grasses
an early sprouting of the buds
of hope to conquer all despair.
“among the lily pads
and tall dark spears
of listening grasses…”
—"The White Dream"
by Joyce Odam
Among the lily pads
of green a hoping blooms.
Hearts of thoughtful men will
entertain a hope to vanquish gloom
and tall dark spears
of doubt and darkened fears.
Men debate then fight a war
of words. And, thus arises
in list’ning of the grasses
an early sprouting of the buds
of hope to conquer all despair.
HECTIC DAY
The sounds of industry
beckon me to the porch where
the neighbor’s leaf blower
wakes our sleeping dog,
stirring his lazing dream-walk
into a frenzy of bird chase.
The warm summer air
carries the scent of pine and
the threatening chatter of jay.
That brush pile should not be
burning, nor wafting its ominous
salute through the neighborhood.
But then who’s to say the sun
is not, itself, burning a hole
through my upper lip as I call
my dog inside to the safety
of our polyurethane couch,
where TV noise quietly speaks
of city riots and rising tides in
arctic lands.
The sounds of industry
beckon me to the porch where
the neighbor’s leaf blower
wakes our sleeping dog,
stirring his lazing dream-walk
into a frenzy of bird chase.
The warm summer air
carries the scent of pine and
the threatening chatter of jay.
That brush pile should not be
burning, nor wafting its ominous
salute through the neighborhood.
But then who’s to say the sun
is not, itself, burning a hole
through my upper lip as I call
my dog inside to the safety
of our polyurethane couch,
where TV noise quietly speaks
of city riots and rising tides in
arctic lands.
FROM THE BUTTON BOX
I’ve plucked out:
3 matching pink plastic buttons,
deemed to be triplets
born to a fortunate mother
1 brass button with insignia,
deemed to be a war medal
cast aside by a wounded vet
6 white shirt buttons carded
neatly to a small card,
deemed to belong to 6 CEOs
meeting roundtable-style
to deliberate the limited range
of democracy
7 purple moon buttons,
which begs the question,
“How many quarter moons
are there per year?”
I close the button box lid and
saunter to the kitchen to make
a tuna sandwich. Tomorrow,
I will search the box again where
somehow I expect to find at
least two yellow fish-shaped
buttons that had escaped the
fisherman’s net.
I’ve plucked out:
3 matching pink plastic buttons,
deemed to be triplets
born to a fortunate mother
1 brass button with insignia,
deemed to be a war medal
cast aside by a wounded vet
6 white shirt buttons carded
neatly to a small card,
deemed to belong to 6 CEOs
meeting roundtable-style
to deliberate the limited range
of democracy
7 purple moon buttons,
which begs the question,
“How many quarter moons
are there per year?”
I close the button box lid and
saunter to the kitchen to make
a tuna sandwich. Tomorrow,
I will search the box again where
somehow I expect to find at
least two yellow fish-shaped
buttons that had escaped the
fisherman’s net.
MISSION CART WHEELS
My fondest memories of childhood days
are visits to the old California mission
where still I see four old, abandoned
mission cart wheels, muddied and
leaning against the adobe north wall
as if someday these ancient carts
would be rebuilt and roll once again
along the cactus lined footpath.
Soon the smell of chocolate invades
my daydream. Today there are no
mission bells, no calls to prayer
in the fresco-adorned mission chapel,
just a hunger in my belly for four
fudge-striped cookie rounds.
My fondest memories of childhood days
are visits to the old California mission
where still I see four old, abandoned
mission cart wheels, muddied and
leaning against the adobe north wall
as if someday these ancient carts
would be rebuilt and roll once again
along the cactus lined footpath.
Soon the smell of chocolate invades
my daydream. Today there are no
mission bells, no calls to prayer
in the fresco-adorned mission chapel,
just a hunger in my belly for four
fudge-striped cookie rounds.
THERE I WENT, AFAR OFF
with shiny leather shoes whose soles
run up the back of my ankles,
ankles bound in fine knit and lace…
toddler legs toddling…
frilly skirt bouncing and waving
as an old woman would wave a hankie
to her suitor who chooses to ignore her
as she sallies up to his gray face.
The face of a tired old, impotent man
in no mood for suiting or dating or dancing…
sitting, as he is, on rattan,
glass of whiskey in his tobacco-stained
fingers… his patent-leather shoes
impatiently tapping.
The fedora, off his stern head, rests
on a tiny wooden tea table.
“Who,” he asks, “is this little snot nose?”
It was explained to me later
in the camellia afternoon
that he didn’t much like Grandma, either.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.
—Kobayashi Issa
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Carol Louise Moon for sending us springtime hope and blossoms and all that good stuff!
with shiny leather shoes whose soles
run up the back of my ankles,
ankles bound in fine knit and lace…
toddler legs toddling…
frilly skirt bouncing and waving
as an old woman would wave a hankie
to her suitor who chooses to ignore her
as she sallies up to his gray face.
The face of a tired old, impotent man
in no mood for suiting or dating or dancing…
sitting, as he is, on rattan,
glass of whiskey in his tobacco-stained
fingers… his patent-leather shoes
impatiently tapping.
The fedora, off his stern head, rests
on a tiny wooden tea table.
“Who,” he asks, “is this little snot nose?”
It was explained to me later
in the camellia afternoon
that he didn’t much like Grandma, either.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.
—Kobayashi Issa
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Carol Louise Moon for sending us springtime hope and blossoms and all that good stuff!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
